Black Coffee, Cigarettes, and a Quarter Ishvalan
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Miles has been keeping long hours during the Ishvalan Massacre, and it's beginning to tax his doctor's addictions as well as her patience. Coffee is about to get expensive at Briggs.
1. Coffee

_Miles has been keeping long hours during the Ishvalan Massacre, and it's beginning to tax his doctor's addictions as well as her patience. Coffee is about to get expensive at Briggs._

A/N: So we can has a Rug Roa category but no Miles or Buccaneer? Well, gotta make use of what we got. *Sics Ishvalan plotbunnies* I don't own 'em. Even the doctor's last name comes from Dailenna. While this one-shot ties in with "Red-Eyed Brother," it's not necessary to read one to understand the other. Just a little Briggs piece set early in the Ishvalan Civil War, because Miles torture is fun! ;)

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Sherry Wendle was accustomed to double-shifts. She wouldn't be serving in the military, much less as Briggs's primary physician, if she wasn't prepared to give up her share of sleep and days off. But some days, she had to admit, not many, but some, she wished she'd stayed out west with her dad's family practice. It would have let her see more of her siblings, and if she had to fight with six brothers and sisters for the coffeepot, at least it wouldn't be at the end of her shift at four in the morning.

The doctor yanked off her headband and pushed the limp dark blonde spikes back. There was too much blood in her caffeine and nicotine system for her to deal with this right now, but it was the fifth time in as many days that she'd caught him "getting an early start on the general's paperwork" and consuming her precious store of liquid imported warmth and alertness.

"I ought to start charging you, captain." It wasn't that she didn't have reasons to appreciate the results of the young aide's sleeplessness - her medical equipment had never been cleaner or more efficiently organized, but he'd hidden her cigarettes and she hadn't been able to find them for two days. It just wasn't good for his health.

Miles had looked up at the sound of her voice, hand going automatically for the sunglasses on the table beside his stack, but Sherry just rolled her eyes. He must be tired if he hadn't heard her stumble over towards the coffee machine. Slowly returning her tired, half-teasing grin with a shy upturn of his lips, he put his shades back down and reached for his wallet instead, forking over a small coin. "A hundred cenz ought to cover one pot. I've started more."

Good. He was learning. She couldn't let him get away too easily with it, though. Sherry forced her expression into the best imitation of General Armstrong that she could pull on short shift. "Maybe it'll cover a cup. We're on shorter rations, if you hadn't noticed." The doctor knocked in front of his paperwork with money in hand before she went to hover in front of the percolating container of joy. Even the smell made her feel better. She had been about to make a crack about him being the last thing Briggs would ever be able to import from Ishval for a very long time, but the tangy scent had revived enough of her sense of diplomacy to halt her tongue. She was trying to get Captain Miles to sleep more, not give him more reasons to worry.

"You're in a lovely mood," he observed, arching a pale eyebrow. Sherry rubbed the sleep out of her eyes beneath her glasses and offered a slow blink in response.

"It is too damn late for rose-colored glasses. Too early. Both," the doctor amended. She had teased him for "prudishness" in attempting to hide his eyes from the lady who'd seen nearly everything else on everyone here, but Sherry had to admit that they were stare-worthy. The single red light on the coffeepot blended into crimson irises, making it seem as if Miles glowed from within instead of from the portable oil lamp.

Another victim of the captain's insomnia. "You slept at all?" she questioned him. Sherry Wendle was the doctor here, damn it. She was allowed to stare long and hard at a man's eyes (looking for broken blood vessels from lack of proper rest) and ask personal questions (inquiring after previous conditions) and demand anything that didn't go against Armstrong's command (insuring the army's continued health).

The only answer was a quick resettling of his shoulders as he turned back to the paperwork. Briggs was weeks in advance, now. The bigwigs in Central praised them for it, when they weren't busy trying to drum up support for Ishval.

"Captain Thomas Abdul Miles," she growled. He paused with the coffee cup halfway to his lips, intelligence report still in hand. She took the former from him and drained it. Sherry couldn't wait for the next batch anymore. "Bed. Now."

Miles set down the report very carefully, blinking at her like her younger brothers had when she'd caught them with a hand in the cookie jar and they hadn't quite realized they ought to feel guilty. Unlike her brothers, the captain matched her stare for stare after that slow, intentional shut and opening of his dark lids. "Unless you mean something entirely different from what I expect you do, Dr. Wendle, there's not much point." Damn the man and his rock-solid poker face. He might be a featherweight when it came to alcohol, but he could give the general herself a run for her money when it came to stoicism, uttering shamelessly flirtatious sentences as if they were the daily banalities of running Briggs the way he did...

Damn it, he was distracting her from the issue at hand. Which wasn't all bad if it distracted him, too, but just because he was burying the problem didn't mean it wasn't still there.

She glanced down and noticed a tattered note on much thinner paper than the official Briggs letterhead mixed in with the rest of his work. She couldn't read much of it from the other junk he'd piled atop it, but it had been signed "Mama." His medical records had listed him as an only child. His extended family on his mother's side had followed their patriarch back to their ancestral homeland. Miles's parents had been the last ones left outside the war zone, since Sherry herself probably had more of Ishval flowing through her bloodstream than the captain's father, short, dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, and pale-skinned as she was compared with the dark-eyed man who had started going gray long after his soldier son and smiling wife in the picture Captain Miles had hidden beneath his bunk.

Sherry kept snapshots from her family in various displays about the medical bay. She'd caught sight of Miles's single pictorial memento of home away from Briggs once before he moved it in one of his late-night cleaning raids.

His parents had reluctantly compromised between fears for their own safety and a desire for contact with his grandfather's people and settled just south of Lior, the last time Captain Miles had said anything. Not that it was safe to show red eyes much of anywhere these days…

"I knew you'd drunk too much of my coffee."

"Probably. I'll go walk it off and then head for my bunk," Miles promised her sheepishly.

"Like hell." Sherry grabbed his hand before he could do more than stand up from the table. "I know how long it takes for this to wear off; I've been drinking it long enough. There are better ways of getting it out of your system, Miles."

"I take it you have something in mind?" The red-eyed captain picked up his sunglasses and pocketed them before gathering up his papers and tucking them under the elbow of the arm she'd trapped, however temporarily. His other hand covered the rim of the empty mug, splaying large, callused fingertips that tapped against her index finger and thumb.

She couldn't prevent this, any more than she could prevent a bullet from Drachma in the line of duty. But if he was cut off from his roots, Sherry Wendle could make sure that General Armstrong's bright young aide didn't come completely unmoored.

"You don't have to be alone if you don't want to be." She kept her eyes on his as he stepped forward. She'd have a crick in her neck if he looked down at her like that all night long. It would still be worth it. "Even if you want to be, sometimes we need you with us."

"You're being awfully presumptive, Dr. Wendle. Are you certain that you ought to be speaking for General Armstrong and the rest of her bears?" Military recruitment poster straight back, chiding schoolmaster tone of voice… Miles let nothing personal through, even when he had to be as exhausted as she was.

"Not all my family members are in those pictures," she informed him, refusing to back off.

He quirked an eyebrow. "I have wondered if you were part rabbit." He would make that sound like less of a crack about her bounty of relatives and scarcity of height and more like a challenge - without ever openly implying anything against fraternization laws, of course.

"Briggs is your family, too, captain." That inscrutable mien cracked, and Miles's red eyes blinked and searched the floor. She'd hit too close to the mark.

"It's not the same thing, ma'am," he sighed. "I make myself useful to the general and the rest of the troops as I am able, but I don't trust my life purely to camaraderie."

"Screw Armstrong." Sherry hoped he wouldn't take that order literally. "I like you, Miles. And you wouldn't be up for another promotion if we didn't trust you, though sometimes I think you quit listening when you've been up too long. What part of 'bed' do you not understand?"

"Yours or mine?" She had to kiss him for that. Miles's response was somewhat less than stoic. The empty coffee mug got left on the table, and eventually, they had to stop and pick up the fallen papers.

"Mine. For observational purposes." She could skip the cigarette tonight. Her morning pot of coffee might not be fresh, but it would be safe from late-night raids by over-efficient quarter-Ishvalan general's aides. Besides, she had another little (well, not that little,) addiction to keep her warm and humming right along into the saner hours of the morning.

The coffee was long gone by the time they got up. "We'll definitely have to charge one hundred cenz per cup," Miles agreed, looking forlornly at the empty coffeemaker.

"At least." Sherry ran her hand over her face, trying to force herself awake enough to locate her lighter.

"Good. The new recruits come in today; you'll be able to scrape a little money off of them." Armstrong would glance at them wryly while delicately sipping the last of her brew, wouldn't she?

It wasn't like Sherry was stealing away her aide for anything more than continued observation of his sleeping patterns. Yes, it was going to be a long-term study, but it wasn't like they'd made that much noise in the ladies' locker room. How were they supposed to know that the general would have been just waking up and hitting the showers? (Quite literally, this morning. At least she'd left the curtain alone; all of them were content to publicly pretend Armstrong had no idea what had been causing the sounds in the other stall.) There were much better uses for insomnia than paperwork.


	2. Cigarettes

A/N: So we can has Miles category! Yay! (Now, do we or do we not pass the Buc?) I don't own them, otherwise I could get my muses to line up in an orderly fashion and not start six fics at once, including a second chapter to what was supposed to be a completed one-shot.

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She knew, and she knew they knew she knew, ever since the unpleasantness with the early morning shower. Still, the general was willing to overlook certain minor infractions as long as they could behave professionally in public. There were certain benefits to being in charge of requisitioning the medical supplies, including birth control, and paying close attention to the habits and customs of Olivia Armstrong and her men, especially the new captain working closely with her and recently promoted Major Miles, after all. It was just part of their job, as the doctor was quite happy to inform her. They still refused to confirm anything. No point to it; they'd chosen to break frat law and it was only fair to offer General Armstrong plausible deniability if she needed it.

When Armstrong did get a semi-public confession out of Dr. Wendle, it was about cigarettes.

"You're quitting?" The general had to replay the scene in her head and reexamine the evidence in front of her to be sure. She thought she'd just seen Sherry Wendle push away a pack of her favorite brand. Without even attempting to open it. She had barely even glanced at the thank-you card attached to it, and Armstrong knew they came from a trustworthy source. Captain Buccaneer had been here long enough to know better than to attempt to prank the doc when it came to her first cigarette of the morning, even if it was past ten o'clock.

"I'm cutting back. Unless Miles asks, then I'm only quitting temporarily." Sherry gnawed on a pen cap, not even seeming to realize she'd brought it to her lips. Food cravings, upset stomach, sudden mood swings, weight gain, restlessness… Armstrong didn't need to be a doctor to recognize withdrawal symptoms.

"So Mr. Clean Living's finally gotten to you," the general observed bemusedly. The shorter woman just laughed. "How long's the bet?"

"Seven months, twenty-seven days, ten hours, and twenty… three more minutes," Wendle confirmed, checking her watch. "Roughly."

"Roughly," Armstrong echoed her, sitting down.

Wendle automatically moved to pour coffee. "There's an early escape clause, of course." The taller woman shook her head when the doctor offered her a mug.

"Under what conditions?" The general had the unsettling feeling that she knew where this conversation was headed, and she didn't know how it could end without Briggs requiring another physician. Damn it, she liked the little firebrand, and this would probably hurt Miles, as well, and couldn't her people possibly act like adults instead of horny teenagers, for once?

Sherry took the pen out of her mouth, setting it deliberately next to the unopened pack. "You look like you already know." The smaller woman squared up as if for a fight, but at least she wasn't about to lie. "This wasn't an accident, sir. We know we're risking dishonorable discharges, but I feel the risks of not trying now are worse than having to walk away from our positions with all we've learned from Briggs. Major Miles agreed with me."

Of course it had been intentional. If Captain Buccaneer was capable of preventing mistakes, surely two bears who had survived the fortress for at least three years each would be wise enough to know how to take proper precautions. "You wouldn't be threatening a superior officer with blackmail during wartime, would you, Dr. Wendle?" Armstrong raised an eyebrow, keeping her tone at just the level of softness that warned of the sharp ice beneath.

"Of course not." The light reflected off the doctor's large round glasses, temporarily obscuring her eyes as she lowered her head in mulish acknowledgement. "We know each other too well for that. Sir," Sherry Wendle added a moment too late for respect. General Armstrong had gotten used to the more informal "ma'am" from her old guard, or even the odd jocular "Livvy" if they'd been out drinking, but Sherry had overstepped her limits. She was just raring for a confrontation, wasn't she?

Armstrong decided to offer her a wake-up call before things escalated any further. The little doctor was scared and the general was frustrated, but they didn't need to turn this into an immediate, violent solution to the growing issue. "You know me very well, Wendle. I don't reinforce the pointless shit that they might insist upon in Central, but my soldiers need to survive. I depend upon strong individuals to strengthen my army." She leaned forward, aware of the scabbard strap hanging across her shoulder. "Hate to see you weaken yourself."

"You know there's nothing more dangerous up north than a mama bear." Sherry sighed and dropped her eyes to the unclaimed cup of coffee. "We've had enough fur-brained cubs come through here. We can handle one more."

"I can't have you in hibernation in the meantime." General Armstrong wanted to believe her, but Sherry Wendle could hardly do this on her own. _Physician, heal thyself, _Armstrong quoted mirthlessly in her head as a darker set of blue eyes met her own once more.

Well, of course, she hadn't done it entirely on her own so far, either. Fuck, Armstrong was going to have to have a very intense conversation with her aide, as well. Depending on how this one went, the discussion with Miles could go long enough for him to talk very quickly or would shortly at least prevent a repeat performance.

Sherry bit her lip before pulling back into formal at-ease. Did she stick her hips forward as she did so, or was it just the general's imagination? "I have saved up my leave, sir. I've even contacted a few specialists who could cover for me during that time."

"They won't be you," Armstrong spoke out of what she was half-convinced was an entirely misplaced sense of loyalty.

"So you'd better stay out of trouble for two to three months, starting in June." There it was, spitfire Sherry. "I've got another border to defend." She wasn't stupid enough to follow that up with a hand to her abdomen, though she did soften her voice on the final sentence, much to the general's muted irritation.

"But why the hell are you trying now? There's no way that two people" - three, she corrected mentally - "could change what's happening down south. Briggs has the best, but there are limits to the amount of miracles we can perform."

"We're not looking for a miracle. Our kids will likely never see Ishval, but they'll know that they survived its fall. The history won't be complete, but it'll be unbroken."

Armstrong warily noted the plural. "Kids?"

"There's just one now, but I have a favor to request, ma'am." Sherry paused, reaching for her pen. Armstrong finally took note of the new ring. It was hanging from her dog tags, not unusual for married soldiers who didn't want to risk chilblains. "Would you mind officiating?"

"Just so we're clear: you're explaining it to Central if they ask."


End file.
